


What's Lost in Me (Till I Find You)

by Kaerra



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An exploration on trauma from war on all the characters, And what they decide to do about it, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Kidnapping, Largely an exploration on how sudden change impacts people, Mentions of injuries/wounds with a bit of detail, Minor Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Rated for battlefield violence and swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaerra/pseuds/Kaerra
Summary: During the second battle to defend Garreg Mach from the Adrestian Empire, Ingrid risks everything to save Dimitri from an outside attacker during his battle with General Randolph—and gets taken captive in the process. When the dust settles and Ingrid is declared missing, Sylvain is frantic. After scouts determine she was captured, disagreements break out among the Blue Lions over whether they can muster a rescue mission. Driven by emotions he only partially understands, Sylvain sets out on his own to find the woman who has never let him down—no matter the cost.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 21
Kudos: 35
Collections: Sylvgrid Big Bang





	1. And Now You're Falling Away

**Author's Note:**

> This Big Bang fic is the product of so many people’s feedback, support, and all around awesomeness, I could probably write a chapter thanking everyone. To everyone who sprinted with me, commiserated with my feeling stuck, and cheered on my progress, you’re amazing. Special call out to everyone in the pithy name server, especially in the last few weeks—you’re the best, and I adore our supportive writing and artistic community.  
> Within the amazing Sylgrid community, special thanks to Nightsdawn for encouraging me to sign up and helping me brainstorm my initial premise, to nicole_writes, paperpenpal, sunnilee, TooGoodToBeBad, tarinumenesse, and many others for being my writing companions in arms in the slog against the BB. An enormous thank you to Dena for the beta, feedback, and encouragement, without you, this would not be half as polished as it became. Also to Mish, Tori, Anastasia, Roxy, and Hyde for helping me stay focused in the final slog, when I start questioning just about everything.  
> To my utterly amazing artist partner, Melissa, thank you so much for everything you contributed, from helping me really get this fic’s direction settled, for being so invested in the project and excited about its progress, and just for being an all-around awesome person! I’m so glad we got to work together on this, and I can’t wait to tackle something else with you whenever this (much longer than planned) fic concludes. You’re the best!  
> The link to the artwork is posted below, although it’ll be a while before we get there. The title of the fic is inspired by the lyrics of “Dark on Me,” by Starset (as is the chapter title), specifically this stanza: 
> 
> But I found in you what was lost in me  
> In a world so cold and empty  
> I could lie awake just to watch you breathe  
> In the dead of night, you went dark on me

If there was one thing that Ingrid Brandl Galatea hated, it was feeling useless.

Given how many aspects of her life were dependent on the decisions of others—like her father—the absolute _worst_ place to feel helpless was on the battlefield. Especially with everything on the line, like it was today.

Hovering in the air atop her pegasus, Ingrid watched the steady progress Sylvain made on horseback as he led some Swordmasters from the recently returned Knights of Seiros. The Empire had finally noticed their presence at Garreg Mach Monastery and attacked with a sizable force. It was an intimidating challenge for their skeleton army, but nothing on the scale of what Edelgard had smuggled inside the walls during her first conquest over five years ago.

Below, a roar of triumph, followed by the clashing of steel carried loudly enough for her to hear over the late afternoon wind.

“Die, Imperial Dogs!”

Ingrid cringed as the owner of the voice flashed into view—a tall blond man dressed in black, the Blaiddyd blue of his heavy winter cloak flying behind him as he lunged into a group of enemy forces. If the Professor had hoped to hide the identity of Faerghus’s “resurrected” crown prince to quietly gather resources and manpower for their meager army, her bluff was going to be called. Soon.Dimitri’s visible enjoyment destroying his opponents—along with his constant threats against the Adrestian Emperor—was the equivalent of casting Meteor in a small antechamber packed with people. Edelgard would know he lived well before they could strike anywhere near Enbarr.

 _Pay attention to your task, save tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow_ , she told herself, swallowing down the anxiety that settled in her throat like bile.

It had been Glenn’s mantra, or at least the words he’d always repeated with varying degrees of patience when they’d had occasion to train together as children and teenagers. Ingrid suspected Felix also followed his late brother’s wisdom, not that she could see him exemplifying the mantra from back here. His Assassin’s uniform made him difficult to spot within the writhing melee clogging the main avenue of the city.

A loud clanging sound broke her from the grip of her worries. About one hundred yards away, the ballista manned by an Imperial archer—the source of their assignment—had launched a projectile that collided with Sylvain. He laughed and tossed his head in that arrogant way that usually made her feel a rush of irritation, but this time she found herself smirking.

“Is that all you’ve got?” His taunt rose through the air. “By all means, send more my way! I’m getting bored with no one willing to actually fight me.”

“You really think the archer will leave the ballista unmanned if you insult them enough?” she shouted down to Sylvain, unable to summon the sternness she usually did.

He looked up and even in the waning afternoon light, she could make out his grin.

“Might as well have some fun before I take them out. Try it sometime, Ingrid!”

She shook her head, but returned his smile. “Your ideas of fun on the battlefield need some refinement.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you!” He straighted his shoulders in a show of exaggerated pride. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have your turn to fight.”

“Well, hurry it up, then!” she said, and chuckled when he saluted her.

A sharp whistle from Ingrid’s right immediately drew her attention, as well as Sylvain’s. The Professor had developed a means of communication capable of being heard over the sounds of steel on steel, and the insults and threats that typically overwhelmed a battlefield. Ingrid immediately spotted the woman’s long mint green hair, tinted an even more unsettling hue in the late afternoon winter sun as she rushed down a city street, the Sword of the Creator sheathed at her hip.

Their gazes connected, and Byleth Eisner raised a hand, a clear signal of pending orders. Ingrid immediately steered Windmaiden, her long-time pegasus companion, down within hearing distance of the Kingdom Army’s true heart.

The Professor’s bright green eyes were unusually animated, although Ingrid couldn’t read which emotion dominated in a cocktail of worry, irritation, and determination.

“Dimitri broke ranks,” she said. “Try to keep him from losing his head. I’ve got this end.”

Ingrid nodded, both honored and markedly concerned that the Professor had singled her out for the task. “I’m on it!”

Byleth gave her a short nod and picked up her pace. Ingrid spun Windmaiden to face Sylvain, who’d keenly watched their exchange.

“You know the routine, Sylvain,” she said. “Stay alive, don’t do anything stupid.”

He gave her a cocky grin that somehow was reassuring. “I’ve survived this long, haven’t I? Those lectures finally sank in.”

“Ha!” she snorted. “Prove it by not getting injured doing something foolish.”

“Whatever my lady commands!” Sylvain gave her a fist pump, which she returned.

Grinning widely, Ingrid turned her pegasus towards the action up front, south of the marketplace and the center of town, towards the wide avenue near the gates to all of Garreg Mach’s walled complex. Nudging Windmaiden forward at a cruising speed, she scanned the fighting below. The black-garbed mages and white-robed healers mostly clustered together in the rear flank, with mountedlancers darting in and out of the melee ahead, notably the brightly colored hair of Ferdinand and Leonie. They were cutting their way towards a triple-teamed Assassin that Ingrid somehow knew was Felix from the stance. Behind them, a black-garbed mage followed alone, her hair the color of the impending sunset in the sky above. _Annette_ was breaking ranks? How bad was the situation down there?

Ingrid looked past them and spied Dimitri barreling into a group of heavily armoured knights, his crescent lance flashing in the late afternoon sunlight. Thank the goddess he wasn’t in danger, but that could change any second.

 _Just focus, Ingrid._ _L_ _ook for the best point to join the fray_ _and_ _halt_ _Dimitri’_ _s advance_ _._

She forced herself to look for the subtle landmarks they’d created to demarcate the boundaries of the fire trap zone. The prince was several feet past the Church of Seiros banner they’d hung from the top of a former residence. If he went much further, he risked trapping their own ranks within the flames before the enemy had fully entered them.

“Goddess, Dimitri, has your hatred overwhelmed your grip on tactics, too?” she muttered.

She coaxed Windmaiden to drop just above the rooftops of the buildings below, looking for the best place to attack from. Gripping Luin in her hands and feeling the odd pulse the relic sometimes gave off, Ingrid quickly evaluated the remaining forces. Her only option was to tempt some of their archers and other specialist units forward, right into the fire trap. Sylvain would give her hell for the decision later, and she’d probably deserve it.

But this time, Garreg Mach would not fall to the Empire. Not while Ingrid Brandl Galatea still had breath in her body.

“Go, Windmaiden!” she commanded.

They dove in the breath-catching, sharp trajectory they’d perfected after years of practice together. If this was how birds of prey felt whenever they attacked, it carried an allure Ingrid wasn’t sure she could ever explain to anyone else. By the clarity that came with being so fully aligned with her pegasus’s movements, fighting as one unit, with one single purpose… there was literally nothing like it.

“Prepare yourself!” she crowed, landing in the path of the oncoming enemy.

She immediately engaged a mounted Adrestian soldier. One thrust and Luin connected with his torso, knocking him from his horse. The animal spooked, its hooves trampling its fallen rider when it galloped away. Ingrid spied a few archers down the road moving up from their positions to get a clear shot at her. Good, her plan was working already.

Behind her, she heard Felix shout something, but the words were like noise, senseless, their source lost in the clang of steel meeting, the metallic tang of blood spilled, and the gurgling sound from the fallen breathing their last. Dimitri had dispatched each of his opponents with ease since Ingrid’s arrival, his focus so intent she wasn’t sure he’d marked her presence. Near the city gates, orders were shouted by an armoured man on a wyvern, the leader of the Adrestian troops. Ingrid knew that the prince had targeted them when he moved forward with intent.

“Dimitri, not yet!” she shouted. He carried on like the words hadn’t registered.

Prodding Windmaiden’s flanks with her heels, Ingrid steered her pegasus into his path.

“Out of the way!” he shouted at her, finally fixing his single blue eye on her.

Ingrid nearly shrank back from the intensity there, from how cold that stare was. But she held her ground, like she’d seen the Professor do successfully, time and again.

“Orders are to lure them here,” she said. “You know why.”

For a long moment, Dimitri’s gaze bore into her, challenging, then comprehension dawned. With a grimace, he lowered his lance and stepped back, grunting in acknowledgment. Ingrid waited for him to speak, but the seconds passed with nothing. Well, this she could work with—he’d heard her, at least. Ingrid settled for moving Windmaiden beside him, so they both faced the bulk of the enemy forces.

“I’m here to entice the archers,” she said, quietly enough that only he could hear her. “Sylvain is leading the sword masters on the other side. The Professor sent me here.”

“Do you always talk this much on the battlefield?” Dimitri growled, and Ingrid blinked, but kept her voice even.

“Only when the occasion calls for it,” she said. “Someone has to manage Sylvain.”

The old Dimitri would have grinned, but this one didn’t even summon a smile. His face was blank, like the Professor’s had always been before she’d really gotten to know everyone. It was like the boy Ingrid had known her entire life had departed, too damaged to emerge from whatever hardness he’d encased himself in to survive. She hated it, hated what life had done to him and to all of them, but this wasn’t the time or place to feel it. Survival meant focus, and that meant winning this battle at all costs.

She was going to survive, and so was everyone else in this army, if she had anything to say about it.

Thankfully, the archers advanced, loosing a volley of arrows that she and her future liege easily dodged. Ingrid’s focus sharpened into dispatching enemies while pretending to be on her heels, to draw them farther into the fire trap. They’d be in perfect position if Sylvain ever completed his mission and pulled the damn lever!

The sun was like a reddish orange ball in the sky when the flames finally erupted, sparking cries of horror from the battalion of armoured Adrestians they’d lured within the space.

“Retreat! To the gates!” came the panicked order from the distance, presumably from the lead commander.

“Don’t let anyone escape!” Dimitri’s command rose clear above the din. “Especially their leader!”

Everyone hastened to follow the command. Between the heat of the flames, the blasts of wind that had to be from Annette, and so many bodies crammed into one space, it felt like being in the sauna with the steam turned up too high. Ingrid felt overheated in her armour, despite the winter chill that had been seeping into her bones however long ago it had been that she’d hovered in the sky watching Sylvain taunting the archer. She shoved it aside, narrowing her focus onto every Adrestian who crossed her path.

Time seemed to stop while the battle raged. Five, ten, countless more enemies fell to the ground around them, and the group worked its way forward, towards the gates. Ingrid recalled the few times Felix had struggled to explain the zone of intense focus he fell into the instant he faced an opponent with intent in their gaze, and her bafflement that he could do that so frequently.

Today, she finally understood. Only one thing in the world mattered: the comforting weight of Luin in her hands and the eyes of the enemy sent to kill her. Time, weather, the heat inside her armour, and the screaming of her muscles… they all retreated, yielding to only one purpose—to survive.

“Your battle is over!” she proclaimed, felling an armoured knight and watching without feeling when he crashed to the cobblestones.

“Why do you die for her, that soulless witch who sent you here to bleed for her delusions?!”

Dimitri’s voice broke through Ingrid’s battle focus for the first time in minutes. He had somehow pulled ahead of them all again, bringing the bulk of the remaining enemy forces on him.

“Fucking boar, he’s going to get himself killed!” Felix shouted, sprinting past Ingrid, cutting down anyone who stepped in his path.

Ingrid moved to follow him, but another pegasus rider blocked her path.

“I don’t have time for you!” she shouted, thrusting Luin at the woman.

The tip of the spear just missed her opponent’s face by inches, but she dodged it all the same. Incensed, Ingrid tried again, but her opponent was fast. In her mind, the Professor’s long-ago wisdom during a training session filtered in without preamble, about the risks of expending one’s energy too fast on a shifty opponent. She pulled back her lance and held it in a defensive posture, hoping to force her opponent into the same game she’d nearly fallen into.

Her opponent shifted stances, and their gazes met, searching the other for hints of what would transpire, anticipating the first move each might make and the series of exchanges that could potentially follow. Then an arrow lodged into the side of the pegasus, followed by another one in the rider’s neck, and both of them crashed to the ground.

“I’ve got you, Ingrid!” Ashe shouted from behind. “Go help them!”

“Thank you!” she hollered, and took to the skies, using the advantage of her speed and mobility to fly above the fray.

As Windmaiden responded to her heeled movements, Ingrid scanned the scene below, noting that Felix had come within six yards of Dimitri, and he’d somehow acquired backup in the form of Annette. Blasts of Cutting Gale interspersed with the occasional Excalibur crossed the battlefield in a set rhythm, released seconds after Felix fell back from an attack. Ingrid took a moment to admire the way those two fought together, considering how infrequently it happened, and refocused her gaze on the prince.

He’d attracted the attention of the senior units that had hung back with their General, who was waving his arms in an order for them to retreat. Ingrid could hear his desperate command even up here.

“This is my responsibility, retreat with the others! I will take them down. Go!”

Dimitri charged forward, and two pegasus riders darted forward to meet him. Ingrid steered Windmaiden closer, her eyes scanning for any concealed archers or Assassins who could launch a surprise attack. Nothing, except maybe… there.

In the tall hedges near where the prince fought, she’d seen a movement that hadn’t been caused by wind. Someone was there.

Her focus narrowed to the location, she gave Windmaiden the command to dive down fast, signaled by two quick movements of her heels into the pegasus’s flanks. Windmaiden responded immediately, and Ingrid’s stomach plunged from the dizzying speed of their descent. She loved the feeling of this, the way the wind chilled her face, blew her hair back, made her feel like anything was possible.

Whomever was in those hedges was going to regret their cowardly decision to lurk in the shadows and strike with stealth.

As though she’d seen the opponent’s intentions with the gift of foresight, an Assassin darted out of the hedgerows, bow drawn, arrow knocked back and aimed at Dimitri’s head. Ingrid was on him before he could fully extend her arm and draw the bow taut.

“I don’t think so!” Ingrid jeered, shoving Luin into the man’s chest.

She only had a moment to blink in shock when the man dropped the bow and grabbed onto the shaft of her lance, pulling it after him when he fell. Ingrid felt herself lift out of the saddle and the rush of air as she was forcibly dismounted. Landing on the Assassin with a bone-jarring crash, she only registered twin screams of pain, his and her own.

Blinking in a daze, she shot a panicked glance to the man’s face, anticipating another attack, but his eyes were glazed, staring unseeingly into the sky. She’d beaten him, and saved her liege from harm.

Like a true knight.

“I did it, Glenn,” she whispered.

Euphoria flooded her like a rush, spreading through her limbs with a heat that made them go slack.

Suddenly her vision went black, obscured by the rough fabric of something—a sack of some kind? The point of a blade poked through at the back of her neck, resting against the skin with deadly promise.

“If you care for the life of that one-eyed devil, you’ll do exactly as I say.”


	2. You Led My Way, Then Disappeared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain relishes the rematch at Garreg Mach against the Empire, especially when he finally comes out on the winning side. But victory comes with unexpected costs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene went through a complete rewrite because I let Sylvain take over my brain during revisions and I ended up starting it from an earlier point in the narrative and seeing how it evolved. This guy is pushy if you let him into your brain, be forewarned. ^_^ Enormous thank you to Dena for all of the beta help, and for the belief that I’d fix this mess! Also to MadameHyde, roxyryoko, starrymatcha, CurlsnCollege, and sweetbun_trio for being my cheerleaders and sprint partners! Thank you to everyone who read and commented on the first chapter, I promise I will reply now that this scene is up and out of my brain. I’m so glad you’re all enjoying this ride so far (it will get rockier, lol).
> 
> Just as a precaution, I’m adding a TW for more detailed descriptions of the battlefield and of injuries, but nothing gruesome.

From suffering through a childhood with a bully masquerading as a brother and parents oblivious to everything except their crest-bearing younger son’s _potential_ , Sylvain Jose Gautier had developed a very good bullshit meter. He might smile and fake his way through life with false sincerity and cheer—especially around the young women who only saw his crest of Gautier, not the actual man—but he prided himself on his ability to read others well. It had, after all, been a matter of survival with Miklan around.

The only time in his life that he remembered being surrounded by more naively earnest people without an ounce of bullshit to their names was at the Officers Academy. With a few notable exceptions—including the one that Sylvain should have seen coming, and didn’t.

The sting of his failure still rankled, even five years after Edelgard von Hresvelg had single-handedly ruined the one positive year in his lifetime.

So, it might have felt just a little bit like payback to stop the Adrestian Emperor’s forces from capturing Garreg Mach a second time. It would have been that much sweeter to throw the lever to the fire trap and watch Edelgard herself get trapped in those flames, but he’d settle for whatever he could get.

The lever flipped into place with a satisfying clunk, and he let out a satisfied whoop.

“Let’s go kick some Imperial ass!” he crowed to the accompanying Sword Masters from the Knights of Seiros. “I’ll try to leave you some leftovers.”

They snickered and saluted. He pretended to tip his non-existent officer’s cap in response, and prodded his horse, Her Ladyship, into a canter down an empty residential street to join the fray in the center of town. (The horse was a stallion, but the name had irritated his father to no end—which had been the point.)

As he and Lady headed towards the roar of the flames, and the shouts of fear and dismay, Sylvain grinned, relishing the opportunity to fight back against the obstacles that had dominated his life.

Things were looking up, finally. Dimitri was back, even if he was… well, not himself. The Professor was here, despite the insanity of what happened to her—who slept for five years without dying, anyway? (And why couldn’t that have been Sylvain’s gift instead of his crest? He’d have put that to good use long ago!) His friends were all alive, the reunion had brought them all back together, better prepared for the ugly fight ahead than they’d been broken up.

The sounds of fighting grew louder, and, with a detour through a narrow alleyway, Sylvain emerged into a fiery morass of chaos. Before him, armoured units struggled to get out of the flames, moving so slowly that the mage unit had caught up to them. Leading the back line defenses was the Professor, green locks unmistakable even in the writhing mass of humanity.

“Looks like I made it in time for the real party!” Sylvain shouted, waving in the general direction of the mages before he rode out to battle.

Sighting a fully armoured knight trying to stay out of the mages’ spell range as he retreated, Sylvain used his spurs to prod Lady into a gallop.

“Going somewhere, pal?” he taunted, and used his Lance of Ruin to knock the man’s shield out of his grip. “You really ought to pay better attention, that shield looked quite impressive before I knocked it away.”

The knight’s response was muffled by his full helm, which obscured his entire face and had only small openings for sight and breathing. Sylvain knew from enough lectures at the Academy that there were breathing techniques each heavy armour student had practiced, so they wouldn’t pass out from lack of air the first time they’d put on full kit. But with this searing heat, even the most practiced knight in Adrestia would be struggling not to pass out from heat exhaustion. All he had to do was force the guy to work hard enough till the inevitable happened, then let the mages take care of the rest.

The Professor might be emotionless to the point it made everyone uncomfortable, but damn, she knew her tactics. Sylvain’s own armour felt unpleasantly warm, but he at least could breathe without obstruction.

His opponent lasted a total of five heavy swings with his ax before he suddenly fell over.

“Have a nice nap!” Sylvain crowed, and barely got his lance up in time to block the strike from another mounted lancer.

“Sheesh, couldn’t even allow a guy to celebrate?” he quipped, and Lady shifted positions so he faced his new opponent, another man whose face was happily visible—and darkened in rage.

“Die, Faerghus scum!” the Paladin roared.

“Is that seriously your opening line?” Sylvain asked, throwing a series of quick jabs at his opponent to judge his speed—and test his anger. “You know, ‘Die scum,’ really lacks the polish to make me quake in my boots. Have you ever thought of consulting an opera librettist for better material?”

“I’ll make you shut the hell up!”

Sylvain blocked a few heavy thrusts, taunting the man with each miss on his sloppy form, watching him grow more enraged. There was the opening he’d waited for—and he struck.

The Lance of Ruin clocked the Paladin so hard in the torso, Sylvain felt the vibrations run up his arm. The man’s eyes went glassy from the impact, and he sagged so far to the right, he tumbled to the ground.

“Did I just smack your Imperial hiney off such a prize thoroughbred?” Sylvain chuckled. “Good thing my own ass is here to replace yours in the saddle—and in the bedroom!”

Despite the melee around him, Lysithea’s irritated retort was easy for him to hear.

“Did the word ‘hiney’ actually leave your mouth?”

He turned and grinned. She stood a few feet ahead of her fellow Warlocks, hands on her hips in a pose more like his mother than a woman who’d just taken out several knights with a single casting of Luna A. Her scorn was irresistible, like lighting a lantern around a colony of moths. Sylvain had always loved the intensity of the flames, aware of the destructive power leashed within. No wonder he liked breaking hearts so much.

“When fighting against children on the battlefield, one should restrict their language, don’t you think, Lysithea?” He felt the grin cross his lips and waited for the inevitable lecture.

“If anyone around here fits the definition of overgrown child, it’s you,” she grumbled. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re currently fighting for our lives.”

Her reaction was reminiscent of Ingrid in high dudgeon, which was always good for laugh. Something felt slightly lackluster, maybe because Lysithea had always been so sour back at the Academy, like she’d never had a day of fun in her entire life. Or perhaps he had too many years of provoking Ingrid to appreciate other women’s reactions properly.

Whatever the cause, Sylvain bit back his planned punchline and turned to find the next opponent. Time disappeared into the battle state that he’d always called “lost hours,” where he lost all sense of time in the charged environment of fighting for his life against opponents desperately fighting to preserve theirs. Sometimes it held a kind of euphoria, much as Sylvain would never admit it to Felix—that guy lived in this dark plane far too much as it was—and today was one of those rare days where Sylvain found that feeling.

Every attack he landed felt perfect, every victory was sweet, a validation of who he was and why he was here. Fighting alongside his friends and especially the Professor, whose impassive artistry with a blade reminded him why she’d been called the Ashen Demon, it all felt right. He felt kinship stronger than any he’d felt for his family with these comrades in arms, and it fueled him with a strength he’d never tasted before.

Today, Sylvain felt invincible.

“What’s happening up front?” he shouted to Ferdinand, who’d remained in position on horseback, picking off enemies in front of the mages for as long as Sylvain had been in the fray.

“Sounds like their commander called a retreat,” Ferdinand shouted back. “I just heard one of their officers shout the order before Leonie cut him down.”

“Over my dead body,” Sylvain shot back. “No one’s getting out of here today except the kid beating the drum by the gates.”

“I’m with you,” Ferdinand replied, his voice grim. “This war needs to end.”

They slowly pursued the enemy as repeated orders to retreat carried from various officers in the fray. Sylvain had never been particularly close to Ferdinand or Lysithea at the Academy, but today, they felt like cousins in one big extended family, all of them allied with one overriding goal.

This time, Garreg Mach would hold, breathing life into a kingdom on its last legs.

That, or they’d all die trying.

* * *

Thankfully, the only deaths Sylvain encountered till the battle ended belonged to the enemy. By the time he, Ferdinand, the Professor, and the mage unit reached the front, the road was littered with enough fallen Imperial soldiers that Her Ladyship struggled to place his hooves on flat ground. Sylvain barely noticed the destruction, aware on some level of his mind that he ought to grieve for the fallen on both sides, that war had reduced them all into wishing the death of anyone on the opposing side. But all that he felt was the elation of post-battle success, and a need to celebrate it.

“Is that it? Did we win?” he asked Ferdinand, who shrugged.

Byleth quickly appeared in front of them, her face showing no sign of any kind of battle emotion. “Dimitri got their leader. I’ll join them. Ferdinand, if you could please find Seteth and get his status report?”

“Right away, Professor!” Ferdinand hastened away.

She sprinted ahead, where Dimitri stood over a man in armour, a blood-stained poleax tossed into the ground behind him with such force it had embedded in the cobblestones. Dimitri loomed over the enemy commander, menace emanating from his posture.

Overhead, Sylvain heard the rush of wings as Windmaiden flew past, blowing a welcome breeze in her wake.

“Ingrid! What’s going on?” he shouted, but she didn’t respond, focused on something farther down the road.

Sylvain readied his horse to follow her, but Felix’s panicked shout froze him in his tracks.

“Where is Mercedes!? We need Physic _now_!”

Mercedes emerged from the ranks of the mages, worry etched on her face.

“I’m here! Who’s hurt?”

Sylvain finally sighted Felix, crouched on the ground ten feet behind where Dimitri and Byleth stood talking to—more like yelling in the former’s case—the enemy general. Felix had his arms around a black-garbed mage, who sagged limply against him, her orange hair lightly blowing in the wind.

He turned around and the look on his face spoke volumes—reminding Sylvain of how he’d looked as a child whenever he was on the verge of losing his control. “It’s Annette. That bastard nearly got her with a silver axe.”

“Goddess, no!” Mercedes sprinted forward, and nearly tripped on her skirts.

Panic rose in Sylvain’s throat like bile, and he shoved it down, burying it so someone here still kept a cool head. He spurred Lady forwards and bent down to Mercedes, offering her a hand.

“Hop on, I’ve got you.”

Gratefully, Mercedes clasped his hand, and he found the strength to haul her upwards, feeling for a moment like his crest had flared—was that even possible? She clung to the saddle horn and murmured the words to cast Physic, which Sylvain recognized from a seminar the Professor had made him attend on Reason and Faith. Fervently, he wished he knew the same spells, anything to remove the look of naked fear on Felix’s face, and suspected his old friend likely felt the same.

Mercedes cast the spell, and the glyph flared momentarily in Sylvain’s line of sight, then faded.

“I’ve cast a Physic, is Annie responding to it?”

Felix looked back at Annette, who weakly raised her head off his shoulder. “I think so, she’s awake again.”

“I was… asleep?” Annette’s voice sounded drowsy, barely audible over the clopping of Lady’s hooves. “How did that happen?”

“You’re wounded,” Felix said, more gently than Sylvain had ever heard from him. “But you fought back and won. Knocked the bastard clean off his feet.”

“That’s good, then,” Annette said. “ _Oooh_ , I really hurt.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.” Felix’s gaze traveled to her torso, and Sylvain realized that he had torn off part of his Assassin’s uniform and had pressed it against the wound, located near where her collarbone met her right pectoral muscles.

Annette wailed in response as her brain processed the painful pressure from Felix’s hand, and leaned into him more heavily. That alone told Sylvain how badly off she was—generally those two kept their distance, other than a number of passing glances and reddened cheeks.

It felt like it took an eternity to cross the last few feet separating them. Several heartbeats later, Sylvain pulled Lady to a halt, and dismounted before Mercedes had let go of the saddle horn. He lifted her down, and she immediately rushed to Annette’s right side, hands blazing green with a new healing spell. She pressed her hands over Felix’s and the spell flared around them, tinting their faces with light before the glyph faded.

“Oh Annie, what did you do to yourself?” she cried.

Sylvain stood there, feeling the same helplessness he knew colored Felix’s features. To think he’d been ready to celebrate their victory while this was going on.

Lysithea appeared at his side, winded from a full sprint. “Let me help, too!”

Mercedes waved her over, and Sylvain shifted nervously back and forth on his feet. Lysithea’s pale pink eyes met his when she took a place in front of Annette.

“Sylvain, I thought I saw Ingrid take a fall. Can you find out if she needs help?”

“Ingrid fell off Windmaiden?” he asked dumbly. Was this a joke?

“Looked like it, she’s up near the gates.” Lysithea dropped her gaze to focus on Annette’s wounds and visibly flinched at the sight. “Good Goddess.”

Sylvain stiffly turned around and remounted his horse, aware that the pounding in his skull was from shock. He willed it away, taking deep lungfuls of air to chase the feeling away, and instinctively grabbed the reins. The roar in his head died back, and he frantically looked down the road for Windmaiden. Fortunately, her white coloring was easy to spot, and he blinked in confusion when the pegasus ran a few steps and took off, directly into the path of the setting sun.

He kicked Lady into a gallop, and took off in hot pursuit.

“Ingrid!” he shouted at her retreating form. “What’s going on? What do you see?”

Like before, there was no response, and he squinted in the glare of the blinding orange rays of what was turning into a spectacular winter sunset. His eyes watered, and for a split second, he could have sworn he saw two riders, like Ingrid had grown a twin. He blinked from pain, and hurriedly wiped the rush of tears away, then looked again. But she was too far away to see now, over the gates surrounding the town of Garreg Mach, headed south.

What the hell was she doing? Ingrid knew the Professor’s rules on reconnaissance, even after a battle as important as this one—they always went in pairs at minimum. He pulled Her Ladyship to a halt, and watched Windmaiden’s surprisingly labored progress into the sunset, damning the light for obscuring his view. Was the pegasus injured in some way, with that odd flying gait?

“I will give you the lecture to end all lectures when you get back here, Ingrid,” he grumbled under his breath.

That would be a rare opportunity of its own, one he ought to savor—if only he could shake his unsettled feelings. It had to be the shock from Annette’s wounds, the horrified expression on Felix’s face, the battle fatigue… it was nearly overwhelming.

Ingrid was fine, she knew what she was doing. She’d always been the rock of their childhood group, especially after Glenn died. Unlike the rest of them, she never lost her head chasing after dangerous impulses.

Things would be okay. Annette would be fine, and he’d finally get to ream Ingrid on responsibility. Everything would work out like it should.

It had to.

He spun Lady around, and flinched when the Professor’s blade caught the sunlight before descending into the captured enemy commander in a quick, clean thrust. His scream of pain rent the air.

_What the fuck?_

He spurred his horse into full gallop. Careful to keep a wide berth from the group treating Annette, the Professor and Dimitri’s raised voices entered his hearing over the pounding of Lady’s hooves, and it was clear they were arguing. Who had ordered the strike?

Sylvain’s blood ran cold when he pulled his horse to a halt steps away from the pair and took in the full scene. The Professor stood behind the crumpled form of the General, his body writhing in the final throes of death, fresh blood dripping off of the Sword of the Creator.

“I miss the Dimitri I once knew,” Byleth said, with actual emotion—regret—underlying her tone.

The rant that erupted from the living shade of the earnest, kind, socially awkward prince-turned-cold-hearted-berserker made the situation clear. Dimitri labeled himself a monster and demanded to be killed for what he’d become. His words felt like an assault against the past, everything the younger man had always believed in. Dazed, Sylvain heard but barely processed the final ultimatum that Dimitri planned to use them all as tools to get his revenge, till their flesh fell from their bones. The empathy and grief in the Professor’s eyes were unmistakable, and that alone told Sylvain everything he needed to know.

She had killed Randolph out of mercy. Saints on fucking stick. What had happened to Dimitri these past five years?

Without another word, the prince stormed off, his cloak flaring behind him like a banner of a bygone era. Sylvain and Byleth watched in silence, sharing the same unspoken anxiety about Dimitri’s emotional well being.

The Professor brought Sylvain back to earth with a quiet question. “Have you any news to report?”

It was hard to find the words. “Annette got injured fighting their commander. She’s got several healers attending her.”

Byleth’s eyes widened. “Show me.”

Sylvain turned around and pointed to the group behind him, relieved to see that Annette was sitting upright under her own power. Dorothea had replaced Felix by Annette’s left side, joining Mercedes and Lysithea in their healing efforts. If those three combined couldn’t help, then… he wasn’t going to consider the alternatives.

Byleth was moving before he fully realized it, and he only outpaced her because he was on horseback. Less than a minute later, she stood over the group like a repeat of field skirmishes from the Academy, and Sylvain felt oddly reassured by the steady air of command she held.

He looked down and got his first look at the wound, which was garish even from this distance atop his horse. A section of the bodice of Annette’s Warlock uniform flapped loosely in the chilly winter breeze, neatly severed by the sharp edge of some kind of weapon. The skin beneath was an blotchy patchwork of black and blue bruising and the jagged red line where the axe had hit her collarbone—evidence left from the combined efforts of three healers. Goddess only knew what it looked like before.

Sylvain shuddered, amazed that the petite woman had survived a blow like that. She was lucky she hadn’t bled out—Felix’s makeshift bandage from earlier had probably saved her life before Mercedes took over. But Annette wasn’t out of the woods yet—the furrow in Mercedes’ brow signified her lingering concerns about internal damage from the attack.

No wonder Felix was pacing nearby like a caged beast ready to rampage.

“I know better to ask how you’re feeling, Annette, but I wanted to see you before I send for more healers,” the Professor asked, her voice as gentle as though she spoke to a frightened child. Sylvain hadn’t realized she was capable of sounding like that.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Felix spat before Annette could answer. “No one held position once the boar took off. Even Ingrid broke ranks because of his wild disregard to follow the strategy we’d all agreed upon.”

“I will take responsibility.” Byleth nodded, her tightened lips the only visible sign of distress. “I should have been up here.”

“Damn right you should have been!” Felix shouted. “Annette could have _died!_ ”

“Please don’t blame the Professor, it’s my fault.” Annette’s feeble voice drew everyone’s attention to her. “I got ahead of the other mages, and I knew I could help when the Empire began retreating, so I just… followed.”

“This is why we keep the mages in the back lines, unless you’re assigned to one of us as an adjutant or it’s pre-planned!” Felix continued, throwing his arms into the air. “You got hit with a silver ax and goddess knows how you’re still standing.”

“I knew the risks! I couldn’t let anything happen to— all of you!” Annette sounded close to tears. “I’m sorry I failed.”

For a long moment, she and Felix stared at each other. Sylvain recognized the source of helpless rage on Felix’s face for what it really was: a shield from the pain of almost losing someone he cared about. The ghost of Glenn was never far from the younger Fraldarius brother, and this situation had resurrected that old grief. Sylvain had plenty of choice words for his socially challenged friend later about better ways to show his concern for Annette than shouting, but the situation needed to be defused now.

“However it went down, may I extend my gratitude for taking down their General, Annette?” Sylvain said smoothly, making sure no trace of his concerns showed in his friendly smile. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

She flashed him a weak smile, and shot a chagrined glance in Felix’s direction. Very interesting. And definitely worthy of future investigation. Sylvain turned and locked gazes with Felix and gave him the look that his friend knew well, the one that asked, “Are you a bigger idiot than even I knew?” Two spots of color formed on the latter’s face and crept down his neck, and he crossed his arms and looked away.

“Just don’t do it again,” Felix muttered, whether to Annette or himself, Sylvain wasn’t fully sure.

“Is she safe to be moved to the infirmary tent?” Byleth asked Mercedes, apparently used to disregarding all of the emotional outbursts around her. “Manuela has set up a tent in the marketplace for serious cases.”

“Maybe if we could transport Annie on horseback.” Mercedes frowned.

“That’s easy enough,” Sylvain said, and immediately dismounted. “Use my horse, he likes the ladies as much as I do.”

“Stop being silly,” Annette giggled, then winced at the resulting pain. “OW. Please, there’s no need. I’ll be fine when they’re done.”

“As Ingrid would tell you, ‘I’m not the type who gives up easily.’ Accept your fate of being fussed over,” Sylvain said, his smile genuine, but firm.

Annette’s eyes crinkled in good humor, and the next words out of her mouth felt like a jolt. “Speaking of Ingrid, where is she?”

Sylvain whirled around in the direction of the main gates, shock hitting him like a punch in the gut. The sun was sinking behind the horizon, and there was no sign of Windmaiden anywhere. No hint to suggest Ingrid had been anywhere near this part of the battlefield. Why hadn’t she returned yet?

Something was wrong.

“She took off after something earlier, but I didn’t see what it was and she didn’t stop to explain,” Sylvain heard his voice say over the roar of panic in his ears.

“Which direction did she go in?” the Professor asked, her voice uncharacteristically sharp.

Sylvain turned and met her eyes, reading the same suspicion that swelled inside of him. “Southwest, directly towards the sunset. I shouted at her to explain what was wrong, but...”

He trailed off, staggered as his brain put two and two together. The odd way Windmaiden had flown, like the beast was burdened by something unusual. That split second when he’d thought he’d seen double Ingrids in the sun’s glare—something about that image was wrong. One of the figures had been hooded, the other bare-headed.

There had been two people on the back of the pegasus.

“They fucking took her.” The words spilled from his mouth, bitter as acid. “I saw two people on the pegasus, but it was flying towards the sun, and I thought I’d seen wrong in the light. _She's not here_ , so what's left but the worst scenario?”

Everyone turned to look at the Professor, her face shifting from its normal blank expression to something he’d rarely seen—fear.

“Goddessdamn it,” she said, and all hell broke loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have some definitive answers, I promise! Also, the sole credit for Annette taking this kind of injury goes to my most recent AM playthrough, when Randolph bypassed Felix, Dimitri and someone else upfront to take out Annette. He got her to 1 HP before she blasted him with two rounds of Wind. That’s my girl. And now the moment is in fic!

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the incredible [artwork](https://twitter.com/meli_sketch/status/1358183378357518337) by the fabulous Melissa! It's going to take place in a much later scene, but I will try to get there as soon as I can! 
> 
> If you want to catch me (mostly RTing pretty art) on Twitter, come join [me!](https://twitter.com/Kaerra3)


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